


400,000 Men (And only One I need like Air)

by orphan_account



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 1940s, Air combat, Allied Forces perspective, Alternate Universe - World War II, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Comrades in Arms, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dream and Sapnap are French, Dunkirk Evacuation, Everyone else is British, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt with some comfort(much later), Medical Trauma, Not Beta Read, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, Techno is Belgian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26833108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Enemy have driven the British and French armies to the sea.Trapped at Dunkirk, they await their fate. Hoping for deliverance.For a miracle.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 27
Kudos: 221





	1. Chapter I

Everything is quiet.

Placid, in a way the world never has been before. There’s peace in the manner the men and boys trail along the streets - without a word, mindless and yet wholly seized by their surroundings. All done up in khaki uniform, pale green helmets, bolt action rifles loaded. Some clung close to their chests, fingers twitching over the trigger well at the sound of gunfire in the distance, or a too loud creak from within a settling house - while others kept them slung over their shoulders. A careless display, that of a man ready to die without a single sacrifice to his name. Scuffing the soles of their shoes against the stone and the cobble, one man tries a doorknob, gives it a shove under the weight of his shoulder, and ultimately steps away to check the mailbox pinned into the brick only to throw two envelopes to his feet carelessly. Another boy, a brit, is tedious in the way he holds discarded parchment and peels away at it. He’s making a shape, is what clicks in one dirty blonde’s brain as he sees the young soldier discard the scraps to step on them as he walks under the shade of the tightly packed buildings. He’s making something familiar, something akin to that of a heart.  
  
Albeit distracted by such an oddly human display, this frenchman in concern sticks to the brick walls nearest to him of abandoned homes that had once been filled with exciting lives and warm fireplaces, his free hand trails the pads of his fingers against the reassuring rough texture that greeted him in odd gaps that made up alleyways and streets. His head twitches to attention, ear perking as he slows to a stop, index finger and thumb still barely brushing the brick as his neck twists, freckled cheeks bunching and subtly darker brows furrowing as he squints at the nearby roofs. Not a single helmet peers up, not a barrel of a gun catching the light in the silence only filled by the ambience of a world peacefully waiting to pick them off. The frenchman turns on his heels, jogging to catch up.

He never looks back.

  
  


They’d all seen it.  
A glimpse into the world and what it was capable of doing to men so sure of themselves and boys so vibrant and proud. It was a given to lull them into silence - each man too terrified to open their mouths in fear their last words would bear no weight. That they would be tearful confessions or cries of injustice the temporal Earth simply had no time to lend an ear to, so they bite their tongues. Chewed on the inside of their lips and didn’t bother shouting when the first bullet ricochets off the brick directly beside the dirty blonde’s head. The scatter of dirt and debris is audible, deflects the scattered particles off the frenchman’s cheek. It rings a vicious tone in his ear that is quickly swept away by the sheer force of adrenaline, pumping blood in his ears and throbbing through his veins. It’s a mad dash. Scrambling past bodies that collapsed directly behind him, the frenchman’s arms flail as he tries to keep up with the reaction of his own body. He sucks in sharp breaths and heaves out great exhales as his feet slam against the ground. The dirty blonde’s head bows and his body recoils under every brutal shout of gunfire, reminding him of the pieces of brass still embedded in his thigh from months past.  
His body had been put into motion far before anyone else had, sending him flying ahead of the others that had fallen victim to the instincts bred into humanity - no longer fight or flight but instead submission to fate and fear itself seizing their limbs, slumping to the ground in a pile. The dirty blonde barely dodges out of the way of one body that heavily tumbles to the ground, brain matter gushing across his front like fish guts in a blender and the sound of the bullet that follows so loud that it feels as if the inside of his skull is bleeding. Like it could purify the mind in one fell swoop, one good connection of brass to cranium. They hadn’t felt a thing, he claims to reassure himself even as he hears howls and shouts of agony of those less fortunate than the gore of the man clinging to the front of the frenchman’s uniform - barely audible beneath the scattering of gunfire and the pounding of his pulse. His legs pump and he skids around a corner only to feel a body collide with his own, a shoulder meeting his and an elbow in his gut. He snarls, grips onto the (much smaller, he realizes) frame and drags them around the corner before shoving both himself and this poor sap forward. It doesn’t take long for him to pass up the kid whose helmet barely fits on his head. Doesn’t take long to hear a, “ _wait!_ ” from a shrill, thick accent and realizes - it’s been days since he last heard someone speak. He doesn’t slow, but surely falters for a second as he sends a frantic glance over his shoulder.

“ _Dream! Wait!_ ” the small boy cries and he nearly tumbles over his own feet, eats shit, and swallows his very own teeth. But instead he's slamming his heels into the ground, taking a few skipping steps to veer sideways into the mouth of an alley. The frenchman takes in his surroundings, drinks it in like it was the last thing he would see - praying to whatever god may be above that the enemy hadn’t found them out, the possibility that they were being surrounded at this very moment increasing every second they wasted. As the boy catches up, slowing to a jog with heavy gasps and sweat matting his dark brunette hair to his forehead - Dream doesn’t even turn around to be able to snag the boy in his hand, grab him by his collar, and drag them further into a corridor. The dirty blonde hears the sound of the boy’s helmet connecting with the ground, like a metal bowl dropped on the kitchen floor. He doesn’t stop when the boy complains, strains against him in an attempt to retrieve the trivial thing. He doesn’t look back.  
  
What used to be a market, now barren, makes up their brief moment of cover from the enemy fast closing in. They whisk past the scent of rotten fish, carts hanging meat, herbs, cheeses, breads, clothes - it’s as if everyone had simply vanished. Their hot, short breaths mingle in the air of decay - the first human beings to occupy this place in what had to be days. A space left all behind to the rats and the weather, subjecting the two soldiers to the horrible miasma of rot. The boy gags once he breaches the wall of still air and fetid stenches. A disgusted noise muffles into his sleeve as the boy tries to steady his breath, attempting to bodily turn away from the spill of what used to be a carcass now rotting into the wood beneath it. Dream simply pulls the collar of his uniform over his nose, eyes narrowing as he gives another tug of the boy’s shoulder. Peers down the narrow street before turning, sticking close to the walls - which earns a confused noise.

“ _Where… where are -_ ”

“ _Shh._ ” he hisses out the curt noise as they jog beside each other, Dream not so much as daring to release his grip on the brit. He couldn’t rationalize why in this moment, his breaths still short, adrenaline and instinct ruling his every movement. Another turn, this time they hardly fit into this alley - shoulders roughly meeting brick, boxes and barrels being shoved aside by the older’s leg. It’s much darker here, the sun muted by the sheet of smoke covering the city - the unrelenting power of the German military a grim reminder. It lingers in their lungs, catches their breath, and stains their tongues with a lingering, unpleasant taste. Like death and gunpowder.

“ _You’re french, yes? I- je parle un-un peu-_ ”

“ _Be quiet, kid. Just trust me._ ” Dream snaps quietly and he can feel the embarrassed burn to the boy’s cheeks from his arms length distance as the frenchman’s words come out in flawless English - not even so much as a hint of an accent adorning his voice. The frenchman grunts as he takes the heel of his shoe and shoves a box aside, the sound of wood grinding against stone piercing through the air before lunging out into the street with the brit close on his heels. What comes from that though, is a shower of bullets aimed directly at them. The whiz of ammunition zipping by, the feeling of brass skimming right past his ear in a deafening shriek, earns another inhumane reaction from the dirty blonde. He flails wildly, drags the boy against his chest and bodily shields him from the oncoming assault - shoving the two back into the alley. The odd tango of their feet knocking into each other and the taller’s knee colliding into the boy’s thigh sends them tumbling to the ground. He lands atop the boy in a sprawl of limbs - which elicits a squeak, as if the kid deflated, flattening the poor sap under his weight and mutters a, “ _Shit. Sorry._ ”

Dream only earns a small groan in response, which is enough confirmation that he was alive to matter. After a moment, he lifts his head and peers up as the deafening volume is slowly depleted from the air, filling it with a pregnant silence. He rocks back onto his knees and leans towards the mouth of the alley without extending himself out, “ _English!_ _Anglais!_ ” Dream shouts once there is nothing but the ringing silence, voice breaking, extending his bolt action rifle out of the tight space the two were fit into as he waves it. There’s a moment of silence before he dares to peek his head out. a helmet just like his own had peered up from behind the bleeding bags of sand - slowly being sapped of the grains meant to protect their lines, spilling slowly onto the cobble street covered in brass and scattered remains of parchment. The head turns, glances at the barrels pointing out between the large bags before shouting out a, “ _ici!_ ” and giving a sharp wave.

A breath of relief, and Dream is dragging the brit to his feet with a hushed, “ _quickly - quickly, quickly_ ,” as he jogs beside him to the cover of allied forces. The boy is still gasping and Dream realizes he must have knocked the air right out of his lungs. Only when they meet the French face to face, does Dream finally release his bruising grip on the brit, and only then does he realize he had kept this boy on such a short leash because he couldn’t _live_ with himself if he let a kid _die_. It was funny, he realized. As if it mattered in the first place. Their climb over the sandbags and scattered remains of chokepoints is less than graceful, tossing a weapon haphazardly over broken pieces of wood splintered by bullets and mortars and clearing them in a single jump (albeit Dream has to help the small boy over the barrier, watching him scrabble at the wood and hiss from the splinters digging into his delicate hands). He pities the kid as he drags him up from beneath the arms, tucking the brit’s shoulder under his arm to steady him. Men wearing the same uniform as him unabashedly stare at the frenchman from under the same helmet. It’s a look of violent, animalistic envy. That, had they been given the chance, they would rip him limb for limb if that meant they could go where he’s going. Dream stares right back, chin brushing the top of dark brunette hair as he gazes forward.  
  
He turns his head, shoulders following closely after as he picks up his MAS-36, checks it’s chamber, clears the weapon, and slings it over his shoulder as he pockets the spare ammunition he’d emptied from the hollows of his rifle. The back of his hand presses against his cheek, the rasp of his stubble smearing away the dirt and grime marking his skin - before he’s striding forward. Gaining distance from the brit as he slips his arm away, silent and focused. He hears the tap of boots quickly trying to catch up to him as he strolls down the cobblestone path and the short breaths of the kid he’d dragged to safety. There’s a minute of silence, a quiet solidarity of two human beings who’d scraped their teeth on the sharpened scythe of death itself - and lived.

“ _How do you know my name?_ ” the Frenchman begins slowly, huffs that question out between even breaths as he pushes calloused fingertips under his helmet to wipe away the sweat. The boy’s expression flickers with surprise before he fidgets with the straps of his backpack and Dream sees it. The heart shaped parchment, now crumpled in the brit’s hand. Of course it was him.

“ _I-I’m… my friend said it - uh_ ,” the boy sputters, a thick accent adorning a still youthful voice as he swallows thickly. Dream pities him, “ _I’m Tubbo! I’m… I’m a friend of Innit. Teammate, uh, the 12th motorized Infantry Division! He said you were about yea big… dirty blonde, freckles, Frenchman... An’ a scar on your left cheek. Said you fought with him at the Maginot Line and lost y’somewhere there. Thought you died, he said.”_

Dream blinks. His jaw visibly clenches, throat working down a thick swallow as he walks, his eyes the only thing that moves - piercing into the boy’s wide, cornflower orbs. He’s silently searching for an answer in that forlorn face of a boy forced to see men die and countries fall. He sees such a visceral, human pain that Dream himself held close to his chest and preserved desperately - because the moment he became satiated with the suffering in this world, he would lose himself entirely. But by the way that hurt seemed worldly, kept on the outer layers of skin and not reaching into Tubbo’s heart, did he realize how fortunate they both were. Tommy was still alive somewhere out there, hopefully on the beach - hell, even on the Mole and on his way across the channel and that’s all he needed to think about. They walk beside one another, hobbling their way towards the pale sands of Dunkirk that whip around their feet as if it were plumes of smoke welcoming them into a house fire, the grains that had been scattered to the wind by the explosion of mortars and bombs that left gaping holes in the sand scattering through the city. The layers of dunes stick to skin drenched in sweat and dampen with blood and raw bruises. Dream gives a huff, eyes squinting subtly as the two step out into the sand, shoes sinking in and the feeling of individual grains drain into their socks. Embedding themselves in between their toes and digging into the sores on their skin as they simply stand there in awe.

There’s miles of it. The beach. It’s anything but empty, unlike the rest of the city. Up to the frothing sea, there are lines of men standing there, gazing out into the dark waves and bowing their heads under the thick, heavy clouds muffling the world around them. At first, it’s hundreds - but only as Dream slowly shuffles his ruined shoes further into the openness, does he see. It’s hundreds of _thousands_ , simply standing there. Waiting to die or to spend another day pretending it will change. It takes the dirty blonde a moment of pure and utter awe to let his views change, fester, and settle in his chest like he’d been crushed under the weight of a tank. He swallows thickly, shakes his head, and slinks forward with the boy close on his heels, veers away from the Mole and instead begins towards a dune tucked against one of the buildings. He doesn't stop to acknowledge the lost puppy he'd picked up until he's collapsing his knees into fine grains of sand, sinking down beside the body of a British man haphazardly dumped into the sand. Pale, lifeless eyes gaze right back up at Dream and yet he doesn't hesitate to dig under the collar of his shirt and pat down his pockets. Lifting a canteen, popping it open, giving the lip a sniff before taking a swig and offering it to the boy over his shoulder.

“ _What’re you doing? Go find your unit._ ”

“ _...But you’re French._ ”

Dream is quiet for a moment as his rough, greedy hands pause in their way of stripping this man of his uniform. Hears Tubbo take a long swig, then another, before he’s sputtering and coughing out the water he’d most likely inhaled. The dirty blonde swallows thickly, sucks in a sharp breath and understands. He would be the last of the men to get off the beach if he wore what he was wearing - the proud uniform of a French Army soldier. If things continued the way they seemed to be, ships slowly rotating in and out the Mole that extend far out into the ocean, he’d be forced to stand here and die. They all would, the Belgians, the French, every ally - until all the British were evacuated across the English Channel. He could only hope he’d be able to get to safety with at least one limb intact and a heart still beating in his chest. The frenchman’s head hangs with a shuddering noise - and for a moment, Tubbo firmly believes he’d broken the man with those simple words, maybe offended him, and takes a half step back. But instead, Dream rises to his feet, pats the chest of the corpse discarded in the dune without even a dog tag to his name and begins to move forward again. Further away from the Mole, closer to the line blurred between Allied forces at the German's unrelenting power.

“ _Wh- Dream! No offense but, there’s no way they’re prioritizing the French - but that doesn't mean you give up!_ ” Tubbo scurries after him, scrambling to walk beside the taller as he grips onto Dream’s bicep, only to feel a cold, rough hand lay over his own. Prying his fingers off with ease, the dirty blonde gazes down at the boy from the corner of his eye and it’s terrifying. Something about the way the frenchman’s gaze bore directly through Tubbo sent a shiver down his spine, the brit’s steps slowing involuntarily. Sinking his shoes into the sand, planting himself there in defiance.

“ _Well you don’t have to die for the French, Tubbo. Go find Tommy. Go home._ ” Dream murmurs as he continues forward, adjusting his grip on the strap to his bolt action rifle. The boy knew Dream was right, that one could practically see it. Home. _His_ home. _His_ Tommy, somewhere amongst the crowd. Tubbo could stroll down the beach and be welcomed right into the arms of his British allies, could probably be paraded forward as a child hero. After all, he looked like he was barely twelve years old, and a young medic who returns home looking like he does - with the lives he’s saved? Was sure to make the papers and place him securely in medevacs from here on out. Get him a job that wouldn't kill him in a month, give or take. Tubbo glances over his shoulder towards the Mole, sucks in a deep breath, takes three quick glances. One to the back of Dream's head, one to the paper in his grip, and one final trembling glance to the Mole. He neatly folds the heart, tucks it into his breast pocket -and begins to walk. A lone figure, shrinking in on himself, shuffles towards home.

For Dream, home was far behind him. Crushed under the heel of the enemy, his family scattered, his house most likely reduced to its bare, hollow shape - burnt to the ground or pillaged and maimed.  
Yet all the same, the home he was yet to find has been flying towards him at approximately 300 miles per hour - the loud roar of a formation of three **Spitfires** the only thing rattling through the air.


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Find your friends and hold them close.

Tubbo had always been smart.  
  
Not that he knew it himself - only Tommy or Wilbur could ever reinforce that fact and make the boy, for even a second, believe that they _might_ be right. Even as he was stuffing a chest wound that made horrific sucking noises between every gasping breath and wrapped tourniquets so tight he watched fingertips go purple and feet pale in mere seconds, he would glance around for the tall, confident Warrant Officer and his best friend - search for their approval even when there was nothing to be proud of.  
How he’d lived through a month of desperately holding the line of Dunkirk, stretched thin among his unit, was something every soldier was familiar with. Visceral desperation, a means to an end, dreams and desires unsated that drove him forward. It was the high energy of his youth being fed into dragging bodies and carrying dying men instead of playing baseball and running around his quaint, seaport town with him on Tommy’s heels. The young boy let his body decide every course of action even if it ended with one of his sergeants gripping his collar and shaking the medic until his head swam for ignoring direct orders. Let - what he thought was his instincts - drive him forward. He trusted his gut more than he did his own head, because there? Doubt would fester and grow.  
  
  
This felt right.

It settled in his stomach like stale bread, like he’d swallowed just a morsel of that carcass he’d passed not ten minutes ago. It tasted like bile in the back of his throat, pricked his nerves, and yet he knew it was the _only_ thing he could do. As his light footsteps stomp up the ramp drenched in seafoam and frothing ocean waves up to his ankles, he slipped and stumbled his way up the damp wood sloping to the beginning of the Mole, a great structure extending over a half mile out into sea. Lined by a wall of rocks and broken slabs of concrete, standing uneasily with thick wooden beams of support - with a couple thousand men crammed right onto the old structure. Having to lean over and grip onto the steep slabs of wood, Tubbo scrabbles briefly with his blunt nails before he could heave himself up and cling onto the concrete walls - up to his knees, foam clung to his baggy pants tucked into the wrapping around his shins.  
  
For the next hundred meters the stone barrier that once held tourists and townsfolk, where men would take their lover to watch the sun set and friends would toss rocks into the sea, instead were lined with emptied rifles. Leaned against the concrete sculpted half walls, barrels aimed towards the sky. As the brit quietly trailed along the path, shoes scuffing the cobble, Tubbo couldn’t help but pick up his pace despite the squelch of salt water in his shoes and sand pushing into the arch of his foot. The volume around him was an unnerving change of pace - compared to what used to be constant gunfire and the howl of mortars, is instead replaced with the slam of waves colliding with stone, spraying the side of his face in salt, muffled arguments rising ahead, the shuffle of boots, and the creaking of wood. It was constantly building, boiling tension until the metaphorical lid was rattling and hissing out plumes of steam.  
Ahead of him stood a crowd of frenchmen, a handful of Belgians, allies arguing to what seemed like a brit or two at the front as the ocean drowned out every other word that was spoken. “ _British only! British_ **_only_ ** _! These are our ships, you have your own!_ ” Cried the soldier ahead. Venom and guilt concocted in the way he rationalized their intended abandonment.  
  
Tubbo slowed his jog to a stop, not able to see over any of the men complaining loudly to the front, standing helplessly in their spots, before he reached out - tapping the nearest frenchman on the shoulder only to be met with wide, accusing eyes snapping to face him. Tubbo visibly recoiled, one brow twitching, furrowing, as he stared up at the man. He was a tall figure, pale, gangly, face grim with gunpowder and dirt - irreversible damage flickering behind those grey eyes, damage that wouldn’t come off with a shower like the grime would.  
It was visible in his dark, earthy orbs. An oh so familiar expression of animalistic envy he’d been witness to not twenty minutes ago, Tubbo finds himself the center of that very same unwelcome attention. The gaze of a man who’d given up everything and if killing one of his own was the price of salvation? He would take it, would sleep well enough at night to make the blood on his hands worth it.  
  
The French were angry, he could hear it in the way they shouted up ahead. They were angry at him. The small brunette who hobbled, tried to take the pressure off his legs that ached from the unrelenting days of work. He was, in their eyes, the embodiment of Britain’s cowardice. Displayed in front of the French as a small medic without a dying man in his arms. Only wide, cornflower eyes and shaking hands, as if he were running away from the conflict like the rest of the Royal forces seemed to be. As the boy felt encroaching fists anchor onto his uniform, digging into his collar, Tubbo can’t help but feel like prey in this moment. No longer to the enemy, but to those he was meant to trust with his very life.  
  
  
He opened his mouth to speak, but was dragged forward with a strangled noise - hands flying to cling at the twitching digits gripping at khaki and fisting into his uniform. He’s lifted off his feet subtly, enough for Tubbo to go from unsettled to desperate, a hand flying out to dig blunt nails into the offending wrists as the tips of his uniform shoes tap and scrabble at stone. The man snarls, shakes him, and the words he snaps with such venom simply do not translate. Tubbo just squints one eye closed, twists his head away as he felt saliva spray on his face, lips tugging at an unnerved frown. As he’s given another shake and a hand grips at the medic patch on his shoulder - realization smacks him square in the chest, rips the air directly from his lungs. _Ah_ . They were demanding rightful answers. Asking him why he wasn’t doing his job when their men were surely out there dying to hold the lines. There’s no reason any good medic would end up on this beach without a man on a stretcher - they were surely shouting “go back out there and **find** someone to save”.  
  
“ _Stop! Désolé - stop, s'il vous plaît!_ ” Tubbo sputters in a shrill shout, the only words he could muster as he’s given another good shake, but this time his neck doesn’t comply and his head wobbles back and forth with a choked cry. He hears a commotion from over the man’s shoulder, the slur of shouting raising to a crescendo.  
  
“ _Ne le touche pas! Casse-toi, c'est juste un enfant!”_ one soldier snaps, roughly taking the tall man’s hands in his own, jerking Tubbo forward a bit in their struggle before he’s pried away. His feet flatten to the ground, shoulders twitching as he hugged the straps of his pack close, panicked eyes taking in the many allied soldiers now surrounding him. Whether they gazed down at him with pity, or like he was a slab of fresh meat ready to be ripped apart simply on a basis of rage, was mixed in it’s results. The boy took a half step back, the heel of his shoe colliding with the tip of the other, before another leg shakily wobbles backwards and struggles to support his own weight. His lips part, about to form some form of explanation for himself - before his mouth snaps shut and he feels the way his head involuntarily lowers under their gazes. When he finally finds the courage to speak, it comes out as a croak, deep breaths sucked in between every few words as he chokes out what he’d been rehearsing over and over in his march to this exact spot.  
  
  
“ _u-uh… There’s a man. He’s-he’s French. Soldat français… Dream. His - nom est Dream. Does anyone know him?_ ”  
  
There’s a lull of silence before one man towards the front speaks up in what had to be a broken translation of the young brit’s plea, “ _Soldat français, il s'appelle Dream? il faut l'aider, médical? N'importe qui?_ ” and the murmurs of that echo down the line, passing the message onto each man with the pat of a shoulder or a sharp nudge of an elbow to convey it to every man lining the Mole. Typically, Tubbo would find it beautiful how people come together like this. Men of different heritage and views - to preserve just one life - transcending language and indifference simply to see to it that one of their own comes back safe. Just one little victory amongst the colossal losses they’d faced in the wake of being overtaken. But now? The brit is too shaken up to dare do anything but stare straight ahead, past faces that had softened as they realized the boy’s intentions weren’t to abandon them on this beach. He feels a hand rest on his shoulder, then another atop his head, giving reassuring noises that leave the brit shaking as he grips onto himself in an attempt to keep himself on his feet, knees locked. He wanted to get out more than anything in this very moment. Anyone to so much as recognize the dirty blonde’s name would be enough.  
  
“ _Dream? Quoi?_ ”  
Speak of the Devil. A voice rises above the murmurs after a minute of faded muttering and dwindling hope. Heads twist and the men scold each other, pressing out of the way as best they could, stepping on one another’s toes as a figure shoulders his way to the front with the assistance of a strawberry blonde clearing the way, a helmet clad head peering up from between the tightly packed masses of Allied soldiers clearing the way for a man in a Belgian uniform that towers above them all only for a tanned frenchman to be the source of the voice, “ _Attendez! Attendez, qui a dit ça-_ ”  
  
Across his forehead was a bandage, tied under dark, ashen hair to display a head wound he must have sustained long ago - the extra length of bandages dangling behind him in messy knots as if it were some headband. The strawberry blonde behind the frenchman bends his head town subtly, cranes his neck, as if he tried to appear smaller amongst the men around him. He was tall, had long, awkward limbs, and yet carried himself with an air of steely confidence with his rifle flush to his chest, as if it were glued to his hands. Like he knew exactly what to do with every twitching muscle in his body, hyper aware and springloaded to react at a second’s notice. A casual, capable tension that the brunette had only seen in Dream, a strength flickering behind those eyes he’d only seen in Wilbur, hidden expertly behind a collected, nonchalant, even lazy, demeanor. Tubbo is startled by the horrific scar peeling back the Belgian man’s mouth as if he were constantly sneering, part of his lip having been entirely torn out. It was a dark, mutilated bloom of damage the likes of which Tubbo has never seen. It twitches to attention, flashing crooked, dangerous looking canines. The boy’s cornflower orbs widen and snap up as he realizes the tall figure was staring down at him, returning the gaze. A silent question in those hooded eyes, dark, reddened bags accentuating his pale features, beauty mark-covered face, and thick brows. The gesture was entirely harmless and yet Tubbo felt his breath escape him in an audible exhale as the frenchman gripped his shoulders to regain his attention. The brunette blinks, having to peel his stare away from the strawberry blonde as he gazed back at deep brown eyes flickering with visible concern.  
  
“ _Où? Where?_ ”  
  
  


A low rumble warbles through the air as Tubbo points down the beach, gesturing towards a dune flattened against dirt, golden grass peering over the top. At first the noise is distant - too far up in the sky to be perceivable, quiet and low as the three take the steep decline of wooden planks in long bounds. The air is entirely still as their feet heavily meet sand and sink in, swallowed by the dense grains. It was like every distant mortar and crumbling building had held its very breath and taken a moment to peer up to the sky, waiting for something to happen. The sound that barrels towards the beach in the coming seconds - a metallic, blood curdling cry of an engine - is what replaces the ringing silence. Pointed directly at the men left vulnerable in this open expanse of damp sand are the Germans, the distant frame of a bomber bursts from the low hanging clouds and plumes of smoke. It’s a violent, unforgiving promise straight from the lips of the enemy. Men were going to die. They were going to suffer unprecedented pain, picked off like fish in a barrel, scattered into pieces just for kicks.  
There’s a rise of unease in the way those once perfect lines wobble, people shuffling, spreading out. Some burst off, bounding towards the waves in an attempt to find solace in dark waters - while others lunge back towards the town. There are shouts, men crying a warning, the ringing sound of a rifle loading round after round directly at the craft that whirled down with an ear piercing roar. Tubbo feels a hand slam between his shoulder blades - throwing him face first into the sand, flattening the boy against the gritty granules that reach under his shirt, scratched against his bare skin, filling his shoes and digging into his elbows and knees rubbed raw. He’s about to scramble to his feet when an elbow meets his back and he’s flopping back into the sand with a shout. It’s deafening at this point, a shrill, metallic whistle that makes his vision swim. The hatch is opened and fate decidedly plucks up the men that didn’t pray hard enough, didn’t fear it’s strength enough, didn’t cower into the sand anymore than the rest.  
  
Tubbo felt the first bomb connect with the ground and gasped.  
Felt it rumble in his chest, eight hundred meters. His eyes squeeze shut and he digs his nails into his skin, pushes the heel of his palms against his ears as he pants heavily into grey sand. The earth trembles violently with the next connection of explosive to the beach, a hand pushing the back of his head down when he attempts to raise it - to peer at his oncoming fate. Six hundred meters. Tubbo prays. He whispers pleas after hushed desperation to whoever will listen, shaky breaths coming in sharp between every in and exhale. Four hundred meters. The hand that had pushed him into the ground, the arm that sprawled over his back and shielded him, tensed. Gripped tighter at the boy’s shoulder as if in preparation for the worst. Two hundred meters. The next bomb that collided, Tubbo can hear it from between his fingers and through the throbbing sound of the explosive bursting through the air. A visceral, raw howl of agony - of a man’s last moments being spent cowering in fear and ending in shame. One hundred meters. Tubbo burrows his forehead against the sand, feels one quiet breath escape his lungs before he holds it - lungs seizing up in his chest as he draws his shoulders closer. He waits for the collision with a tremble. He wasn’t ready, he couldn’t die like this, he has so much to do still, he has to find Tommy, he **has** to find Tommy, he -  
  
He’s still alive.  
He’s not being ripped in half by an explosion cracking right down on his body, not thrown into the air by the sheer force of its power. There’s just _nothing_ , no encroaching darkness or pangs of white hot agony of a lost limb or a gaping hole blasted in his side. There’s just the sound of waves lapping at sand and stone, of distant moans of pain, the blood pumping in his ears, pounding against the inside of his skull, and his short, sputtered breaths that fan the sand around his face in hot puffs. Yet there was no victory to be had either.  
  
Nothing happens in the coming seconds as the bomber roars up the beach, disappearing into thick plumes of smoke - no one moves. The boy flinches as a spray of damp sand finally comes down on their heads in thick clumps, showering dark brunette hair in granules of salt - making him cower back down for just a moment as his heart leaps into his throat. Tubbo doesn’t move. Even as the ringing in his ears quells into a quiet hum and he can make out the low, shouted commands, the sound of men rising to their feet with grunts and groans. His face remains flattened into the sand, shaking hands slowly shifting from over his ears and into his hair - digging into the roots as he grips on for dear life, eyes squeezing tightly and teeth gritting. He was terrified.  
Tubbo, the small, trembling boy still hunkered into the sands of Dunkirk, was terrified of dying. He’d _always_ known that but the reality was so much more visceral now. Love of country and the pride of a uniform simply didn’t compare to the transient desire to be loved by those he held dear, to spend his moments with them. Not covered in dirt and shit with a lucky bullet that caught him in the thigh or dragging corpses from the trenches.  
  
From atop the boy, he feels the body that had been shielding him begins to shift and rise with the rest - the sand pushing under the man’s feet as he steadies himself. Still, Tubbo doesn’t move. Only twists his head to the side, pressing his ear into the sand and squishing his cheek against the sprawl of grey beaches as if he were listening for a heartbeat within the Earth, under the layers of bedrock and great, living plates that shifted slowly through the millennium. He was selfish. Had he only become a medic to be able to say he’d saved more lives than he was owed to himself? How many lives was he worth when it came down to it - when it was just him in the end? One, and one alone.  
His. No matter the men he’d given a risky amputation to while knee deep in mud and seen them later in hospital, leaning heavily on crutches - met their appreciative gazes with a soft smile and a dip of his head, no matter the soldiers whom he’d soothed as he clotted spurts of blood that smeared across his fingers, up his wrists, squelched onto his face, and darkened the cuffs of his sleeves, no number among those lives saved equated his own. None, not one but his own. He was, and always would be, a corporeal replacement to the next medic who would smile at the men he saved and didn’t hesitate to get blood under his nails. He was replaceable - just like every man that stood and gazed back out into sea with downcast stares. Every man that filled a pair of shoes was a number to add up when historians would later recount the tragedy of this quaint French town and the massacre that came with it.  
  
Tubbo feels the tip of a shoe nudge into his side, startling him from the inkling of self-awareness that reality had planted in the back of his skull. Bright eyes crack open and he blinks, noting he was still here with his fingers in his air and his face buried in the sand. In the fog of war - finding himself knocked upside the head with a harsh realization that simply wasn’t meant for a sixteen year old boy. He should be tossing a baseball back and forth with Tommy, helping his mother prepare dinner, not biting back the horror of realizing how infinitesimal he was. Tipping his head back, Tubbo squints - only to be met with that same involuntary sneer and strawberry blonde hair.  
  
“ _He's_ _already almost there, get up._ ” The tall, lanky man utters, thrusts a thumb in the direction of the dune, cool voice with nary a tremble or a sense of unease behind pale, reddened orbs. As if he hadn’t just narrowly escaped the cold, unforgiving fingers of death by sheer luck. He held the collected facade of a man that had seen tragedy, knew the taste of suffering and picked it from between his teeth, became familiar with the in’s and out’s of how death simply didn’t care, so great and fervent - those pale blue orbs simply stating, “If I die, it’s been a long time coming” as he extends a hand wrapped in thick bandages to the boy. Tubbo swallowed thickly, reaches out his shaking digits, and links their hands. Maybe he’d be better off thinking like the Belgian, and yet they both knew damn well Tubbo didn’t have the stomach for it.  
  
As they stomp up the beach, moving with purpose, clothes filled with sand and hair shaking out the trodden, damp clumped grains - Tubbo is gasping for breath. It often went like this - he was far too small to keep up with the much taller men he was arm in arm with, but didn’t dare form any words of complaint. _This_ man didn’t care, it was as simple as that, he lived for himself and no one else. The smog that hung over their heads stifled the air, but didn’t seem to stop the sunlight from glaring through - causing the brunette to squint and lower his head as he kept himself on the Belgian’s heels as best he could. As they bound up a concrete slab, Tubbo stumbled and scrambled to keep up once the strawberry blonde broke into a jog. A visible sweat matted dark brunette locks to his forehead as he gasped, cheeks tinted pink down to his chest, arms pumping and legs stretching to catch up to the man slowing his pace, twisting his head over his shoulder to glance at the brit, before pushing himself up a set of steep, marble stairs in long bounds. Above it was a sign that read “Merveilleux” against solid white walls, the sides rising off the ground too tall to allow Tubbo to peer through the wide windows that covered wall to wall of this establishment. The Belgian disappears through the dark door that had been cracked without another glance.  
  
Tubbo grips onto the metal railing, heaves himself up behind the strawberry blonde in a gap of mere seconds, the boy catches the door with his foot right before it could have clicked closed. Using his shoulder to coax open the very thing that whined on its hinges, the brunette grips at the doorknob and leans forward heavily on legs that felt like rubber. Slows to a stop once he slips through the ingress, paws at wood and pushes it closed behind him with deep breaths to rest his back on groaning wood. It’s dark, despite the wall of windows to his sides, his wide eyes slipping shut as he tips his head to the side with a groan, adjusting into the stale air, greedily sucking in the cool air. Pale hands dust off his front as he wobbles unsteadily before reaching back to his canteen strapped to the side of his pack. Fumbling briefly, he finally plucked it off and twisted the cap, tipping his head back before the cold, metal lip had even met his mouth. There’s a slight splash of water on his front, but he catches the rest and gulps it down greedily.  
  
With one big inhale, Tubbo threads his fingers through short hairs and gives those sweat-matted, brunette locks a shake - sending a spray of sand and dust onto dark oak floors. With a small jump, a hop on the balls of his feet and a shrug of his narrow shoulders, the backpack perched on him shifts to properly hang off his frame. He finally squints into the dim space, glancing around to gaze at what must have been a breakfast spot. Along one wall is abandoned stretchers and forgotten bodies, pale, grey skin and glassy eyes. All but one. One that had been brought to the centre of the room - where the medic watched a man struggling for life itself. Clinging on by his fingertips, dangling dangerously above the jaws of death. The display draws him further into the room, already reaching to loosen his pack and get to work - when he’s met with a sound. A single name uttered into the quiet space that could very well have given him whiplash.

  
“ _Tubbo?_ ”  
  
Further into the barren room came that sharp, low voice. Lilting heavily with an accent, the way the other’s tongue wraps around his name is painfully familiar, agonizingly so in the way those lips form the “o” at the end of it. The brunette’s eyes snap up instantly, tearing from the man, settling his gaze onto the source. Tubbo feels his shoulders sag and his brows arch helplessly. The hand against his scalp slowly slips from the dirtied, brown hairs and flops limply to his side. The tension wound so tight into his limbs melts into the trembling inhale he sucks in, cornflower eyes locked straight ahead. His breath is stuttered by the saliva trapped in his dry throat, a gagged noise that escapes his lips in a short exhale. His teeth, for a moment, chatter as his chest compresses, lungs emptied of air. Because a tall blonde is rising to his feet from across an open floor of what used to be the hotel lobby, tables tossed onto their sides, chairs stacked against the opposite walls. An awed smile is on those pale lips and Tubbo is about to beg the other to just say his name again - one more time - and he could die happy.  
  
The figure instead bounds up to him, floor boards creaking under the heavy steps. Diving into the brunette, enveloping the smaller in his arms, pulling Tubbo flush to his chest as they collide in a gambol of awkward limbs and hands gripping frantically at one another. Tubbo’s ear is crushed into the taller’s chest, smushed against a cold, metal button and burrowed into the thick, scratchy khaki of a uniform stained in salt and layers of gunpowder. It’s uncomfortable, tastes like the sea and stinks of sweat. The hold is awkward and yet his worn, achy hands fly up to cling at the fellow brit. Because there was the only confirmation he needed, an unspoken reassurance to quiet his fears. Tubbo hears it.  
  
 _Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._ _  
_  
The boy dedicates this to memory as his ear is squashed into the blonde’s chest, the steady pounding of a heartbeat through the thick cotton and the heaving rib cage. Cornflower orbs well, flicker with a layer of hot tears, shame burning at his wide eyes locked on the wall adjacent to the two wobbling around in a strange, joyful caper that consisted of stepping on each other’s toes and knocking their shins together. Like they couldn’t stand still for even a moment. Tubbo finds a pulse against the pale column of a neck that his nose was buried into when he raises his head subtly. He tightens his grip on the back of the blonde’s uniform, adjusts it higher in an attempt to drag his friend closer than they already were (which proved impossible). The heavy rise and fall of his chest, stenches of gunpowder and smoke clinging to uniform, something metallic - like the smell of cardinal wine somewhere buried beneath it all.  
He’s here. His home is in his arms, enveloping him and reminding him of spring showers, of late autumn spent romping around in golden leaves, of chewing on sandwiches under warm rays of sun, and late nights spent shoulder to shoulder on the rooftop. He feels sick in such a perfectly complete way, his stomach flopping, vision swimming, an unparalleled desire to throw up that thankfully doesn’t come to fruition.

  
Tommy.  
He’s still **alive** .  
  
  
“ _Holy shit, Tubbo! You look fucking horrible, man._ ”  
  
He hears the scoffed, abrasive comment above him and isn’t sold for a moment at the dry humor to it that feigns confidence. Tommy was nervous, there was a shiver, a shake, but the taller’s cheek pressed atop the crown of Tubbo’s head, nose wrinkled as he slightly sways the two - the brunette unable to resist how his walls crumbled, because a quiet sob escaped him. Wrenches from his throat unwillingly, garbled like he’d choked on it. He simply leans into the blonde, face disappearing into the fabric of his best friend’s khaki uniform as Tommy’s feet plant awkwardly. Gone stiff as a board as he blinks, gawks, and stares down at the brunette shaking in his arms. His hand smoothed across Tubbo’s shoulder, gave a brief shake because Tommy had the distinct sense that if he let go of the boy now, he would simply fall to his knees and crumble into pieces - or something terribly dramatic like that. The blonde peers up from where he was buried into messy, brunette locks - focused on the quiet conversation across the lobby. He sees the cogs turning in Dream’s brain behind those furrowed brows, the frenchman now noting their added numbers and improvising.  
  
“ _Hey. Hey, big man. We gotta get moving._ ”  
  
Tubbo nods into his collar, but doesn’t budge. Ten seconds pass of Tommy patiently waiting for the brunette to understand what that meant before giving up. The blonde huffs out an exasperated sigh, peeling his friend from his front, but doesn’t dare separate them fully. Instead, Tommy is tucking the smaller shoulder under his arm and wrapping the brunette to his side who scoffs, rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm and the cuff of his sleeve. Literally and physically, connected at the hip. Dream had levelled a stare at the two, earthy eyes travelling from Tubbo to Tommy and back to the small brunette, pointedly taking a peek at the patch on his shoulder and the white cloth tied to his pack, a bright red cross painted on it before closing the distance.  
  
“ _This’ll work. A transport ship is on it’s way into the Mole, give it until quarter past seventeen hundred and it’ll be ready to load at this rate. There’s only so many injured they’ll be taking from here on out considering we’re in the last twenty four hours of this being allied territory - but having just one will atleast get us to the front of the line. Techno, Sap, you get the rear. Tommy, you and I will get the front. Tubbo, lead the way.”_ _  
__  
_The brunette startles and Tommy’s grip tightens on the smaller’s shoulder, blinking rapidly as he gawks at the dirty blonde. He parts his lips, leaning forward and opening his palms as if to heavily recommend against entrusting _him_ with such a task. Yet the words don’t escape him, he’s quickly cut off, as if Dream could see right through him and the doubt that weighed in his chest.  
  
“ _You’re our best bet of getting through - so_ **_act_ ** _confident. Move with a purpose. Command anyone in your way. They’ll move. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing, if you sound like you do? That’ll get us out of here. You’re the only one they might take seriously._ ”  
  
They all silently recognized what Dream had figured out in this time, every face in the room dropping (albeit Techno and Dream exchanging unreadable glances). The frenchman had unravelled the sick game the Germans were playing, realizing the distant sound of ammunition being sent through the streets would only go on for so long before it was on the beach. They connect the dots simultaneously with a blooming horror in their chests, a cold weight dipping in their stomachs. Every man in this space was as desperate to escape as the next. The taller frenchman is ardent, and yet fully in control all the same - a desperation to get far away shared among the allied soldiers. He sank to one knee beside the injured brit sprawled on a stretcher. The canvas of white was now dampened with sweat and blood as pathetic moans escaped his chapped lips, bloodied finger tips weakly clenching and unclenching, neck gone limp and jaw clenched. He was all they needed, just the subtle rise and fall of this man’s chest was enough. It was their ticket out. Techno was the first to move, the Belgian silently shuffling to his position as he gave a shrug of his shoulders. Sapnap wordlessly followed to the rear, while Tommy and Dream took up the front, leaving Tubbo.  
  
Tubbo, standing in the doorway with his clenched fists and uneasy eyes. Wearing the face of a boy who’d lost himself somewhere along the way, buried under the mass production of corpses that piled up in their wake, both enemy and ally. He swallows down a thick lump in the base of his throat and whirls on his heels to begin down the stairs. He was entrusted to lead these men toward the long strip of stone extending out into dark waters - he had their lives in his hands just like every other soldier he’d patched up.  
  
He **had** to bring them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the lovely comments, the kudos, and the helpful pointers! I'm glad you all checked my story out :) It means a lot!


End file.
